


Silver Bells

by Birdie (Robin_Knight)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Miscarriage, Post-Divorce, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Knight/pseuds/Birdie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's world died with Mayday.</p><p>He couldn't envision a life without his daughter; the nursery stood so empty, her photo remained a constant reminder, and she would appear every time he closed his eyes. There were those that understood his pain, even those he never expected to be there for him. Wade offered him a source of hope . . . Peter took it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morghn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=morghn).



The baby still felt warm.

Peter held her tight in his arms; the tubes that criss-crossed her felt unnatural, while her skin was pale beyond measure and camouflaged her against the white swaddling cloth, and he wished that she would open her eyes just once. He needed to know their colour. There was so much potential in just a small frame, so that he could place his finger beneath her palm and almost envision how it would feel for her to hold him. A tear caught in his eye.

The room was cold. The sterile stench of cleaning products clung to the air, while the various machines had stopped their whirring noise long ago, and the silence was absolutely deafening with all that it brought into that brightly lit room. He could hear his heartbeat. He could hear the rustle of the nurse’s movements, as she sat across the room with a saddened expression. He could hear the swing of doors from the corridor. The only thing that he couldn’t hear were the soft breaths of his firstborn child; no cries or screams or laughter . . .

“Would you like for me to call someone?”

Peter nearly laughed in response. The nurse’s voice was soft and sincere, something that he could recognise from many medical dramas and documentaries, but he never expected to hear that tone for himself. He felt separated from his body; nothing felt real, as if he were watching the scene from somewhere beyond his mind, and his heart felt somehow numb to everything that had happened that day. The hospital gown – thrown over his work-clothes – rustled every time he adjusted his baby against his chest. It wasn’t real.

He knew that she would wake up soon . . . just so long as he was patient . . . babies needed warmth and affection, after all, and it was known – in rare cases – for them to wake up after being declared dead. ‘Dead’ was too final a word. He knew she would open her eyes . . . he wanted to know whether they were blue or green . . . his eyes or Mary Jane’s . . . the little girl was so absolutely beautiful that she would be a stunner when she grew up.

No parent was ever meant to outlive their child. He must have done something wrong; there was that incident during the pregnancy, after all, plus the delay in getting to the hospital during the birth, and he had been so upset about the pregnancy at first . . . _we’re too young to start a family . . . no, I don’t think you should get an abortion, but . . ._ he knew he would love her from the moment he saw the ultrasound scan. Ten toes. Ten fingers. Why couldn’t she have the life he promised her? He had lied to her. She was gone.

“Is – Is MJ awake?” Peter asked.

He kept his eyes on his baby. He smiled when he thought he saw her smile, before he realised that he had moved her in the light and the harsh lighting had cast a cruel shadow, and suddenly – without any warning or control – he began to weep and buried his head against her body. There was no scent of baby shampoo or the softness of baby clothes or the gentle rhythmic movements that came with life . . . nothing. The tears stung his eyes.

The nurse placed a hand upon his shoulder, even though he hadn’t heard her move, and he felt a huge sense of revulsion and horror upon her touch. He wasn’t the one that deserved reassurance. He wasn’t the one that needed compassion. The baby was the only thing that mattered, but no one was giving her resuscitation or checking her vitals or -! The nurse squeezed his shoulder; he doubled over and began to retch, unable to hold back his emotions and unable to control himself any longer. He slid onto the floor and clutched his daughter.

“Mary Jane has expressed a wish not to see her,” whispered the nurse.

Peter could understand that, because he felt the same way. If he hadn’t seen his daughter, it would almost be as if she were still alive . . . the doctors could have been lying, the nurses could have been mistaken, his daughter may have just been sleeping . . . he dreaded MJ’s reaction when they returned back to the apartment. He would have to ask Tony or Aunt May to clear out the nursery. He would have to tell them . . . have to say the words aloud.

“It’s – it’s not ‘her’,” said Peter.

“I’m sorry.” The nurse knelt beside him. “What’s her name?”

They had discussed names at length. The baby couldn’t just be ‘daughter’ or ‘child’ or any other adjective . . . this was his world and his world needed acknowledgement . . . they needed a name to go with the beautiful brown hair and round face. He could already picture the perfect yellow baby-grow, which somehow seemed much better than the intricate and handmade christening-gown, because . . . because the baby-grow was what she would have worn every day . . . it would have been _her_. He wanted her to be herself, even in death.

“M-May Parker,” stuttered Peter. “May. My May.”

He reached up a shaking hand to her face. The cheeks were plump and soft, which were too cold to be natural and too pale to be normal, and he let his fingertip run over her cheek and lips, until memories of arguments about whether to bottle-feed or breast-feed echoed in his mind. Those discussions felt like acid in his mouth. They were memories of foolish and naïve dreams . . . dreams of a daughter . . . dreams of a future. He _missed_ her.

“Mayday.”

* * *

“Yo, how are you feeling?”

Peter placed the tray upon MJ’s lap. It was filled with all her favourite foods, which included wheat-cakes made exactly according to his aunt’s recipe, and the scent of everything was pretty overwhelming, especially when he hadn’t eaten in days. The red of her hair stood out against her pale cheeks, and – for a brief moment – Peter thought he would be sick, as he saw their daughter in her appearance. He closed his eyes and drew in slow breaths.

There was no sound of movement from MJ, as she sat up against the plump cushions on their once shared bed, and Peter felt tears rise to his eyes yet again. The nursery was the worst place for him to sleep, not least because of the memories it brought, but he felt closer to their daughter when surrounded by her belongings, as if he could somehow keep a piece of her alive by keeping her room as a shrine to her potential life. MJ had said nothing about it, but she had not spoken at all since returning home. MJ only wanted him out of their room.

They could no longer share a room; MJ rejected all forms of affection or intimacy, while the sight of Peter reminded her too much of their lost child, and – so far – the grief weighed too heavily between them. It was almost like a visible and tangible thing. MJ wanted to destroy everything of Mayday’s, unwilling to even pass it on to another child, and wanted to ‘forget’ as if it never happened, while Peter wanted just the opposite. No compromise could be made.

They grieved differently, but mourned alone.

Peter stood beside the bed, as he waited for her to eat. The room began to smell stale, as it accumulated dust and the scent of sweat, and he realised that he would need to call her aunt and beg for her help. MJ wouldn’t let him touch her, but she would need someone to help her dress and eat and bathe, and he could think of no one better than his aunt. It was difficult to see it as ‘their’ bedroom any longer, as every personal item had been removed by MJ and placed into storage boxes, which Peter stored in the nursery, and he missed it being ‘theirs’.

“If you don’t eat, you’ll be back in hospital,” he pleaded.

He reached out and scooped up a spoonful of soup. It still steamed, so he blew it cool and held back tears at how their daughter would never have her first meal, and – as he tried to fight back that all too real ache in his heart – he raised the spoon to MJ’s lips. The young woman didn’t even look at him, not even to acknowledge the food, and he felt his heart begin to race in anxiety and desperation. He gently touched it to her lips.

“Here,” he said.

MJ smacked away the spoon with her hand. It landed quietly on the carpeted floor, while the soup stained the material and left a mark that would be hard to remove, and Peter – as he looked to her – saw that she was crying silent tears. He made to wipe them away, before he saw her flinch and realised that it was perhaps the worst thing that he could do, and so he slowly pulled his hand away in shame, as he removed the tray from her lap. MJ didn’t even look up as he walked away, but he could hear her sobbing from the kitchen.

* * *

The coffee tasted beyond delicious.

It was only the best at Stark Tower, which was reason enough to be back at work. Peter sat at his desk with his hands wrapped around the ‘best employee’ mug, a gift from Tony some years back, and he allowed the hot ceramic to heat his skin. The desk itself was covered with files and paperwork and leftovers of various lunches, and Peter couldn’t remember having left the Tower in some days, let alone the laboratory itself. He felt exhausted, but somehow sleep seemed to evade him. Every muscle ached. Every joint hurt.

The laboratory was filled with the scent of smoke, as one of Tony’s experiments went haywire and required a fire extinguisher to be brought into play, and Peter – as he took in the scent of coffee beans and cream – realised this was perhaps the worst place to hide. Tony was just as broken as Peter. Tony was also prone to staying awake for days on end, particularly around the anniversary of his parents’ death, and he also held an addiction to work.

Still, Peter wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Tony was his mentor and understood grief. There was no attempt to ‘fix’ things, just sympathy and quiet listening, and there was something beyond helpful about having someone just sit with him and not expect anything from him. He hadn’t heard any empty platitudes about how it would ‘get better with time’, or questions about whether he had ‘tried’ the latest kind of counselling or hobby or activity, and he could almost pretend like nothing had changed in the past three months. Tony even teased him and joked with him.

“I’m scared to go home,” admitted Peter.

He adjusted his white laboratory coat, which practically hung from him, and he realised that he had lost a considerable amount of weight. There were a few test-tubes on the desk, left by Bruce and in desperate need of consideration, while a stack of files labelled ‘Confidential’ sat not far to the side left by Tony, and he knew there was enough to keep him occupied for as long as he needed to be occupied. A small photograph of Mayday sat opposite him . . . something that Tony called ‘creepy’, while Bruce always made sure to pass compliments upon her . . . he found the image a comfort in his darker hours.

“I’m scared to close my eyes,” continued Peter. “I’m scared to open them. If I sleep, I get nightmares. If I stay awake, I get flashbacks. It’s at a point where work is all I have left, but I can’t just live for work, can I? I’m just so _lost_. I feel like nothing matters.”

“I kind of figured that,” said Tony. “You aren’t alone, trust me.”

“Then why do I _feel_ alone?”

The older man came and perched on the edge of his desk. He was dressed in a tank top, with his arc reactor shining through the thin material, and an old pair of sweatpants that looked one size too big for him. The material hung low on his hips, in a way that Peter used to appreciate – albeit secretly – before everything that happened . . . happened. Tony looked pale, aside from arms covered in grease and oil, while his eyes wore huge bags beneath them and his body hunched over as if it carried a large load.

“How is MJ doing?” Tony asked.

“Emotionally? Better.” Peter said. “I don’t know whether we’ll be able to save our marriage, but I think we can salvage our friendship. I’m still staying with my aunt, just while we get things settled, but . . . I’m worried. MJ’s been sick lately, you know? The doctors are saying it could be radiation poisoning, which makes _no sense_!”

“Well, a certain someone was bitten by a radioactive spider, right? I’m just saying you should check out Bruce; if that guy wasn’t so celibate and stuff, I’d be worried for any guy or gal that hooks up with him on a regular basis. It’s one of those conditions where it’s better to ‘give’ than to ‘receive’, if you know what I mean? Like, can sperm even be radioactive? I’m just wondering if maybe we ought to run some tests, see whether it’s an issue.”

“It – It doesn’t matter now, anyway.” Peter ran a hand over his face. “We’re not intimate; just the idea of intimacy makes her feel sick, while I kind of haven’t been in the mood. Anyway, they say she has chronic poisoning, not acute . . . it’s fixable.”

“Yeah, chronic radiation poisoning,” muttered Tony.

Peter gave a sigh, as he took a sip of his coffee. The beverage spilled over the side of the ceramic, so that it dripped down his shirt and caused him to sit upright, and – as he gave a mild curse – he grabbed a napkin and patted down the mess over his clothes. He slid his chair back, before he felt tears start to rise at the corners of his blue eyes, and a part of him wanted to slam his hand against the table or break something against the wall. It was just one small mistake, yet it felt like the end of the world. Tony broke the awkward silence with:

“Remove the cause, remove the problem.”

“So if _I’m_ the cause, there’s no problem so long as I’m gone.” Peter gave a dark laugh. “Do you think that’s why Mayday was stillborn? There’s this thing deep and dark inside me, which just kills everyone that it touches . . . I’m cursed, Tony. I’m broken.”

“Okay, kiddo, you listen to me.”

There was a sound of rustling fabric, as Tony jumped to his feet. Tony turned to face Peter, before he took the arms of the office chair and spun Peter around, and Peter – as he looked up – found his friend and mentor just inches from his face. They were close enough that he could practically smell the whiskey on Tony’s breath, as well as feel the warmth and moisture, and he was moments away from bursting into tears at the strange confrontation. Peter turned his head to look away, but his eyes only fell upon his daughter’s photograph.

“Peter, I need you to listen,” said Tony.

“I’m listening,” whispered Peter.

“Life is shit.” Tony gave him a stern look. “It’s so shit that every day is like waking up with a hangover, so your head’s like it’s been Hulk-Smashed through a Helicarrier, and it doesn’t matter how much you drink, because nothing can make that haze any clearer. You know what, though? It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for MJ to get sick, just like you didn’t ask for the baby to die, and you didn’t ask to feel like shit. You’re blameless.”

“If I had just paid more attention, maybe it –”

“If I had any kind of social skills, maybe I’d have a fiancée that hadn’t just dumped me.” Tony gave a sad smile and pulled back. “You can spend your life thinking about what could have happened, but it doesn’t change what _did_ happen, Peter. I’m coming up with a tool to be used in therapy, makes you see things differently, but even my tech can’t change the past.”

Peter felt the sting of a tear. It ran down his cheek and made him feel vulnerable, as he realised he was displaying a great deal of emotion before Tony, and it brought with it an intense stab of guilt and shame. He knew that Tony was dealing badly with the anniversary of his parents' death, while Pepper’s break-up weighed heavily on his mind, but somehow Tony still managed to find the strength to be there for him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Peter reached out for his coffee and took a sip, so that the bitter taste grounded him.

“So what do I do?”

“You keep moving forward,” said Tony. “You take that pain and you make it into something that you can use . . . something to make the world a better place. I used it for renewable energy and suits that can be used for defence, but you’re not me . . . heck, only one of us can be a billionaire, playboy philanthropist. So tell me: what are you going to do?”

The words lingered in the air. He looked up to see a flickering of the overheard lights, which he took almost as a sign from his daughter, and gave a small smile when he saw – despite everything – how the light seemed to fix itself and continued to shine brightly upon them. He saw how it reflected off the coffee in his cup, how it sparkled in Tony’s eyes, and even how it bounced from the tiles on the floor. It was everywhere, just like Mayday was everywhere.

“I’ll keep going,” promised Peter.

* * *

“I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

Peter looked down at the gravestone. It was beautifully engraved, with a photograph of his daughter taking centre-stage, and he reached out to trace over her name with his bare hand, even as his numb fingers felt strange upon cold stone. There were no weeds anywhere over her grave, as Peter made sure to tend to it personally every week or so, and the flowers were collected in various bouquets, whether in vases or just strategically laid on the grass.

He stood up and wiped a tear from his eye, as he gave a sad smile. MJ stood next to him looking as beautiful as ever, with her winter coat reaching her knees and hugging her figure, and a part of him longed to reach out and hold her. There was still a part of him that missed the taste of her lip-gloss . . . the pet names and nicknames that broke the silence . . . the passionate nights that led into passionate days . . . the shared jokes and shared laughter . . . it was as if none of it had ever existed. It was all wiped out overnight.

“Thank you for being here,” he whispered.

MJ gave a smile almost like the ones he remembered. He missed having her in his life, especially when he felt so alone without her, and the past year had moved by in an absolute whirlwind of events. The divorce had only been finalised just a few days before, which weighed heavily on his mind, but there was no way he would disrespect his daughter’s grave by bringing it up, especially when MJ finally seemed to be back on her feet.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tiger,” she said.

He watched as MJ wrapped her arms around herself. The nails were a result of a manicure, while the blush on her cheeks was from make-up, and he realised – just through the little signs – that she was moving on with her life and wanted to look as professional as she did before the grief took over their lives. This was a woman that wanted to get back into modelling, maybe – due to her age – finding a career someplace else, and she was also a woman that wanted to forget the pain of the past and forge a new future.

“It gets lonely without you,” whispered Peter.

“A twenty-eight year old man living with his aunt,” MJ teased with a wink. “I can see why you would feel lonely. Look, I won’t lie, Petey-O: I miss you. It’s just not enough, you know? It just isn’t the same as it was before . . . I don’t want to resent you, because it’s not your fault . . . it’s not _anyone’s_ fault, but the more you keep _insisting_ on acting like she’s still alive -? It’s like I’m living it all over again. I just – I just want to move on.”

“I – I can get that.” Peter sighed and watched the cloud of breath. “I love you so much, but I would get so angry when you wouldn’t want to talk about Mayday . . . can’t even say her name . . . I just don’t get it, but – at the same time – I _do_ get it. It feels like you don’t care, even though I _know_ you care more than anyone, and –”

“– that’s why it just won’t work between us. We both need different things right now, while I don’t think we’ll ever see each other in the same way again, and we both deserve to find some happiness. We could both still be happy.”

Peter brought his hands to his mouth. He blew warm air upon his fingers, before he rubbed them together and cast his eyes about the cemetery. The sky was downcast, filled with grey clouds that threatened snow, and the breeze that blew across them was enough to add to the chill and make him worry for his daughter. It nearly broke him to remember that she would never need an extra coat or blanket, because she would never feel the cold.

“My aunt used to sing me a nursery rhyme,” said Peter.

They stood in silence for a long moment. He let his eyes look over the way to Gwen’s grave, where she lay not too far from her father, and then realised that his uncle’s grave would not be too far from that same spot. The only ones missing were Harry and his parents, who were buried in another cemetery not too far away, and he felt close to breaking point at the realisation that everyone he loved and touched had died because of him.

It was enough to make him laugh, as the tears fell afresh, because – like so many nursery rhymes – he remembered the tragic meaning behind his aunt’s words, which once seemed so innocent and meaningless. He would never tell them to Mayday, at least not in a way that she would hear and repeat, and she would never tell them to her children in turn, but he knew that to be the best, so that the curse would at least die with him. He had failed Mary Jane as a husband, just as he failed Mayday as a father. Peter said with a choke breath:

“With silver bells and cockle shells . . .”

“And pretty maids all in a row.”

A tear fell from MJ’s eye.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Deadpool, stop!”

Spider-Man shot his webbing toward the gun. It caught immediately on the first try; there was no faulting his aim, while the material was strong enough to attach to any substance, and – with a flick of his wrist – he was able to yank the weapon out of dangerous hands. The heavy metal felt wrong to hold. Spider-Man instinctively threw it to the floor, despite the cry from Deadpool about its cost and worth, and he felt filthy for even having touched it.

The memories of his uncle came flooding to the surface, as he stood upon the otherwise empty rooftop not far from what could tentatively be called his ‘friend’, and he wondered whether he went back to work far too soon. He reached up to massage his temple, while the winter wind struck at his spandex costume and chilled him to the bone. There was a thin layer of ice over the roof, so that every step would have caused anyone else to slip, and he felt grateful for the powers that enabled him to stay in place. The winter was harsh.

Spider-Man could barely bring himself to look at the cityscape.

He knew that a single look would reveal traffic jams as far as the eye could see, while families strolled hand-in-hand with smiles and laughter, and – on one particularly low swing – he had even spotted a small girl running towards a charity Santa, as he bellowed the all too familiar laugh from in front of some department store. It broke his heart to see. He was left to wonder for how many years he would look into the eyes of children and see his daughter, thinking how she could be their age or would never grow to be their age.

“She would barely be one,” he whispered.

“What? Who would?”

Deadpool cricked his neck and stood by the ledge. He was dressed head-to-toe in all too familiar leather, which was a sight that caused Spider-Man to smile despite everything. They had fought in the past, even manipulated and insulted one another, and yet somehow – despite everything – they had come to regularly team-up and hang out. The older man didn’t seem particularly cold, even as he pouted through his mask and strolled toward Spider-Man with a few slips on the smooth ice, and he waved a hand dramatically in the air.

“You took my gun,” muttered Deadpool.

“I thought you had changed,” said Spider-Man. “You said I was your hero. So why have I caught you on the rooftop freaking shooting down at civilians? Trust me, you jumped the gun on this one, if you think you can get away with that. Pun intended, D-P.”

“Sheesh! Have faith in me much? I was just practising my shooting!”

“Do you really think I’m going to buy that?”

There was a sigh from Deadpool. The mercenary draped his arm around Spider-Man’s shoulders, before he tried to guide him over to the ledge, but – with the proportionate strength of a spider – there was no way to move Spider-Man unless he wanted to be moved. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, while Deadpool began a long display of trying to force him to look over the ledge, and eventually he took pity on Deadpool and followed him with a sigh. The older man pointed down into an alley at a painted outline of a person on a brick wall.

“See that? A target. Not the human kind, either!”

Deadpool slapped him hard on the back. It was devastating to see that Deadpool had been telling the truth, simply because it meant that Spider-Man had assumed the worst without any real reason to make such an assumption, and he realised that he was acting exactly like all the other people in Deadpool’s life. They all believed they knew him, whether it was the ex-husband that kept him on a leash and manipulated him, or the ex-wife that believed him to be as monstrous as herself and punished him needlessly, and Spider-Man was now one of them.

It was enough to make his heart race, as a knot built itself inside his throat, and he felt a wave of absolute nausea that he could have been so cruel to his friend, when Deadpool was merely trying to turn himself around and prove himself a good soul. It was one thing to be a bad husband or parent, but now he could apparently add ‘bad friend’ to the list. He felt himself shake, as he tried to hold back his anxiety, and he blinked away tears.

“I’m – er – sorry,” said Spider-Man.

“No problem, baby boy!” Deadpool chirped. “You just trust Daddy next time he tells you everything’s cool, okay? Where have you been, anyway? I’ve missed you! Stark said you were on a ‘sabbatical’, but that seems pretty funny when he treats you like a kid and kids don’t do ‘sabbaticals’, just fat men in tweed with funny moustaches! You know he calls you ‘kiddo’, too? It’s so cute! He’d be perfect if you had a daddy kink, eh, _kiddo_?”

Spider-Man reacted out of sheer instinct.

There were no thoughts in his head, no moment of reflection, but simply a rush of absolute anger and grief, as his fist clenched so tightly that he drew blood upon his palm. He pulled back and punched Deadpool across the jaw, where he felt something break and saw the mercenary stumble backwards and barely prevented himself from falling from the roof, and there was blood seeping through the leather in small spots. The rush of adrenaline was more than anything Spider-Man had ever felt, as so many emotions fought for control.

He looked down at his fist. It was as if it had belonged to someone else, so that he couldn’t even recognise it, and yet he felt that strong sting across his knuckles that grounded him in the moment and forced him to accept the truth. There was just something about Wade’s teasing . . . the word ‘Daddy’ just reminded him so much of what was lost . . . he would never hear Mayday call him ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’, never hear her laugh or see her smile . . .

Spider-Man let out a loud scream.

Deadpool gathered his balance and spun around. The alarm of Spider-Man’s spider-sense alerted him to danger, so that he was able to just about dodge the oncoming punch in time, and he felt a small brush of air as Deadpool’s fist grazed his cheek. He felt dazed and dizzy, as the cold weather bit into his skin, and the sounds of cars and people below did little to aid the sensation of simply being lost. He turned and lashed out. He hit over and over.

It was difficult to see through the tears; they stung his eyes, while a heavy sweat broke over him, and he realised that he was striking at Deadpool’s chest simply because he _could_ strike at his chest. There was no real anger any longer. He soon collapsed to his knees, as his hands trailed down Deadpool’s body and came to rest on icy tiles, and he began to weep in earnest at the whirlwind of emotions inside of him. He barely noticed as Deadpool fell down beside him, even as Deadpool ripped off his mask and stared at him with narrowed brown eyes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Spider-man began to laugh through the tears, until he could taste them on his lips. He reached up and pulled back his mask, no longer caring about his identity or safety, and he almost missed the gasp from Wade, along with how the mercenary clapped his hands together and sang some nonsense tune about Peter’s beauty. Peter clasped his mask between his fingers. He looked down at the mirrored ‘eyes’ of Spider-Man and he saw himself reflected back.

He dreamt once of passing along his suit to a future child, should they inherit his powers, just as much as he thought about retiring from crime-fighting and storing the suit in the basement, where his daughter would never find it and never follow his footsteps. Peter raised his gloved hands to cover his mouth, until he began to retch and choke, and Wade – with a surprising degree of empathy – slid next to him and began to rub his back. It was a small comfort, aside from how it reminded him almost of how a child would be held or burped.

“My daughter . . . she – she died.”

Wade stilled his hand. It then continued to rub in light circles, while Peter slowly caught his breath and began to take in his surroundings. There were sirens somewhere below, along with cheers and laughter from a group of teenagers, and flashing lights in the distance from a Christmas display that reminded Peter of simpler times. He realised this was the first time he had discussed Mayday’s death with anyone except his family or Tony and Bruce.

“My daughter died . . .”

* * *

Peter yawned in the doorway.

He hadn’t expected Wade to climb through his window, not least at three in the morning, but somehow it was far from a surprise. The window gave a loud creak, which was enough to make him gently close the door to avoid his aunt from hearing the sound, and Wade – dressed in a red hooded top and jeans – fell inside the bedroom with a loud thud upon the floor. There was a large grocery bag in his hand, which spilled out all around him.

It looked like mostly packaged popcorn and a pile of DVD boxes, along with some wrapped up Mexican food and a plush toy shaped like Spider-Man, and – as Wade climbed to his feet and shut the window behind him – Peter realised that it was snowing outside. Wade must have been freezing, especially when Peter was dressed in thick pyjama bottoms and an old sweatshirt yet _still_ felt ice cold. Peter pulled the blanket from the bed and dropped onto the floor. He held up one end and offered Wade a spot next to him.

“When I gave you a window key, it wasn’t so you could wake me up at stupid o’clock,” said Peter. “Seriously, you’ve dropped by at least once a night since I showed you my face. It’s been – what – two weeks now? If you’re bored, you don’t have to come so often.”

Wade rolled his eyes and elbowed Peter hard, as he snuggled in underneath the blanket and reached over to slide a DVD into the machine. The room was exceptionally cramped; they barely had to move to reach anything that they needed, and the small single bed could barely contain Peter, let alone two friends that weren’t yet close enough to share such an intimate space. Peter reached over for some popcorn and the remote, where he made sure to turn the volume down to practically zero and put on the subtitles to make up for the lack of sound.

“Nah, I ain’t bored,” said Wade. “Do I look bored?”

“Well, you are eight hours late.”

“Ellie and I had a sleepover!” Wade beamed a bright smile. “I’d have invited you, because she’s a _massive_ Spidey fan, except kids can rarely keep their mouths shut. I know she’d love to meet Petey, too, because I love him just as much as Spidey, and – honestly – I’m kind of glad you’re the same person . . . I was worried Spidey was dating Peter for a while, you know? I only knew you as the annoying photographer-slash-scientist and –”

“O-Okay, well, let’s not go there, okay?” Peter blushed and took a bite of popcorn. “I know you – er – have a crush on Spider-Man and all, but I’m _not_ in any place to be dating right now and I don’t want to make this weird. Anyway, if you were busy you didn’t –”

“I wasn’t busy, I just forgot to call! I got Spidey’s number, but I ain’t got _your_ number . . . well, maybe I do have it, but I forgot you’re the same guy now. I got gushing to Ellie about how cute you are, because I wasn’t going to admit _that_ before, because you were the guy in between Spidey and me, but then I fell asleep. Ellie did my nails when I slept.”

Wade lifted his hand to show pink nails, which were pitted with gold stars and silver glitter, and Peter – despite everything – gave a loud laugh. He had to cover his lips to stifle the sound, as he looked to the door and prayed his aunt was still asleep, and he felt grateful that Wade had been kind enough not to invite him to the sleepover. The mercenary may have made excuses, but they both knew the real reason was that Peter couldn’t yet be around any children, and he was sympathetic enough to realise that. Peter leaned against him.

“Thank you for acting normally around me,” said Peter.

He breathed in deep the scent of sweat and cologne, before he let his eyes rise to the screen in an attempt to take in the action, where he saw a bad handheld-camera recording the actions of some young people in an old village. There was very little plot, but very little action. Peter gave a sigh and nuzzled against his friend, whose hooded top felt insanely soft, and wondered whether he made the right choice to trust in someone he barely knew.

“My normal is kind of your crazy,” replied Wade.

“You’re right about that, but I appreciate it.” Peter gave a loud sigh. “I know I judged you harshly, but it’s so good to have someone not willing to walk on eggshells around me. I – I like having a person to talk to that just _gets_ it, you know?”

He heard Wade unwrap a chocolate bar, while he pulled the blankets around them closer, and the scent of chocolate made him realise that he had barely eaten again in some days. It was something of a surprise what depths Wade held, especially when he checked in every day with May – since learning Peter’s identity – to make sure he ate and drank and bathed, and even was willing to help out in the times that Peter could barely manage that much. Wade draped an arm over his shoulders, as he pulled him close and kissed the top of his head.

“We both lost people, Petey,” whispered Wade.

“Both lost our parents, our girlfriends, our friends . . .”

“Only one of us has lost a kid, though.” Wade looked down at his nails. “Is it fucking wrong that sometimes I envy you? Like, I love Ellie more than life itself . . . I’d kill for her, die for her . . . that’s what scares the shit out of me, though, because you knew your daughter for a day and your fucking world was torn apart, so what if I invest all these years and lose her? I wake up every night in a cold sweat. I cry sometimes just thinking about it.”

“Tony told me that we just have to keep moving forward, but it feels impossible sometimes to do anything except keep looking back. I keep feeling like you do about _everyone_ now, so scared to lose them and so terrified to even be around them, because if I don’t get attached –”

“– you can’t get hurt when they’re gone.” There was an empty laugh from Wade. “Yeah, I’ve been there, pal! I couldn’t drink myself silly like Logan, because it didn’t seem worth it when I couldn’t get drunk, so I’d cut myself or shoot myself or just plain get into fights . . . spent my life chasing after death, before I realised I was already dead.”

The words rang true for Peter. He realised that – for the past year – he had been simply going through the motions, unable to focus on anything except his pain and work, and he couldn’t understand how MJ was able to socialise and forge a career through everything. Peter didn’t want to be a dead person walking, especially when his daughter had so much potential and deserved life so much, and he wanted to do her proud and honour her memory. If he could somehow find meaning without her, would that be forgetting her or respecting her?

They sat in silence, while the people on screen seemingly interviewed people at random, and Wade took a chunk of the chocolate bar in his hand, before he pulled a face and spat it back into the wrapper and tossed it to one side. He muttered something about ‘fruit’, before he grabbed handfuls of popcorn and popped piece by piece into his mouth, and Peter – with a frustrated sigh – tried not to criticise him. Peter blinked away sleep and asked:

“When did it get better?”

“Ellie,” said Wade. “It got better with Ellie.”

Peter scrunched his eyes shut, as his eyes watered with tears. The fact that Wade’s life could only get better with a child, something Peter could never have, broke his heart and made him feel like he had been punched in the gut. He appreciated his friend’s honesty, even if that same honesty hurt him. Peter wrapped his arms around Wade and tried to control his emotions, as he looked up to the screen and remembered that it was okay to laugh and smile and feel happiness . . . Mayday wouldn’t want him to suffer forever.

“What film are we watching?”

“Didn’t think you’d want anything too heavy,” said Wade. “You’re mourning. I’m a shit-stain without an ability to talk about anything deeper than Bea Arthur or chimichangas . . . I figured my self-deprecating humour would only cheer you up so far, so . . .”

“Oh God, you didn’t get porn, did you? Is this porn?”

Wade gave a loud laugh. He made a ‘bow-chica-wow-wow’ sound, which caused Peter to blush so deeply that he forgot his pain and thought he might melt in embarrassment, and – with a low groan – he tried to pull away and slam the video played into ‘off’ mode. Wade grabbed him by his arm and yanked him back, as he laughed loudly and said:

“Nah, no way! _Blair With Project_.”

“Isn’t that film pretty old?”

“No kids. No violence. No need to use your brain.”

Peter scooted further away, so he could lie on the floor and rest his head on Wade’s lap, and – as he smiled at the idea of a film that wouldn’t evoke bad memories – he felt strong fingers brush his hair in a rather soothing manner. He realised no one had ever stroked his hair like that before, least of all someone like Wade who he had always written off as the ‘crazy’ mercenary, and Peter finally felt happy for the first time in just over a year.

“Perfect.”

* * *

Spider-Man sat upon the ledge.

The hotdogs were still steaming hot; they let out the most delicious aroma, as he looked out over the Christmas shoppers down below, and he enjoyed the way they warmed his hands, almost a small comfort in an otherwise harsh city. He felt Deadpool scoot closer to him. The older man rolled up his mask just enough to reveal his mouth, while he noisily ate his hotdog as if he had never in his life eaten before. It took all of Spider-Man’s strength not to reach out with a gloved hand and wipe away the relish on his friend’s cheek.

“I – er – had a bad morning,” admitted Spider-Man.

There was a low moan from Deadpool, who appeared to very much enjoy his hotdog, and the almost obscene noise was enough to make Spider-Man blush from behind his mask, as he took a bite of his evening meal in distraction. The mercenary swung his feet over the side of the roof, where he occasionally kicked at the old brick and sent chunks of rubble down onto heads of people passing by below. They would have to leave soon to avoid attention.

“Yeah?” Deadpool asked. “Can’t be any worse than mine.”

“Oh, yeah? What happened to you?”

“The skin cancer thing was bad when I got up.” Deadpool finished his hotdog with a loud sigh, as he licked his gloved fingers. “There was this massive blister over my lip, which popped when I yawned, so I got this mouth full of cancer pus. Not nice.”

Spider-Man spat out his bite of hotdog. It landed in his hand, which he carefully dropped over the ledge, and he hoped no one was currently aiming a camera in his direction, as the last thing he needed was for someone to take a photo and accuse him of ‘littering’. The press had been atrocious as of late; his hiatus was met with accusations of ‘irresponsibility’, while his every move since his return had been criticised. He handed his leftover snack to Deadpool.

“I didn’t want to eat anyway,” he muttered.

There was a cheer from Deadpool, who snatched the food from him, and – in a couple of bites – it was gone from sight and working its way through his digestion. It was enough to make Spider-Man smile, as he lowered his mask back down and tried to fight back the nausea, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a result of bad meat or his friend’s disturbing recollection of earlier that day. He looked away toward the city again, as the harsh breeze blew by them and chilled both to the bone. Deadpool eventually broke the silence with:

“So what happened?”

“Nothing. That’s the weird part.” Spider-Man frowned beneath his mask. “I actually had a pretty good day yesterday; Tony and I made big advances in our research, while Aunt May and I had a lovely afternoon together, and I even had a nice meal with MJ. It was just – it was just that . . . it was the first day I’ve had where I’ve not thought about Mayday.”

Deadpool stayed uncharacteristically quiet, as he kicked out his legs in a childlike manner, and it was enough to make Spider-Man feel somewhat self-conscious. He looked away, while he simply listened to the sounds of the city, and he wondered whether MJ’s suggestion about seeing a therapist was one worth following, as he thought back to the business card that currently sat upon his desk in his bedroom. It wasn’t a problem he could continue to ignore.

“It’s okay to feel guilty, Web-Head,” said Deadpool.

“Yeah? Well, how do I make it stop?”

“You don’t.” Deadpool gave a smirk. “You love your aunt, right? I bet you go entire days without thinking about her, though, because you’re busy at work or being a superhero or visiting friends or finding treasure with your pirate ship . . . doesn’t mean you don’t love her, just that you have a _life_ that you’re living! Shit happens.”

“That’s hardly the same thing; for one thing –”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s alive. I know! The thing is that Mayday will always be a part of your life, alive or dead, but you’re still living and she’s not, so – every now and again – it’s _natural_ you’ll forget . . . just for a moment! It’s like a scar, I guess. The cut hurts like shit at first, but then it heals over slowly . . . you’re still in that scabby stage, where you ain’t in pain all the time, so you forget and then bang it and then -! Bam! You remember it’s there!”

Spider-Man gave a dark laugh. He reached to his chest, where he rubbed at the spot just where his heart lay beneath, and the soft beating almost provided a small comfort, as it reminded him that he still lived and grounded him in reality. The city was so alive beneath them; it was enough to make Spider-Man lean against his friend, as he looked across the glimmering lights and neon signs, and he felt a strange mix of emotions. He drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke he barely recognised the sound of his voice.

“So I just have to wait for it to scar over?”

“Yup! Then just like a scar, you’ll remember it every time you see it.” Deadpool gave a smile and cocked his head to one side. “It’ll stop hurting, but it’ll always be there and always be a part of you. Mayday probably would be happy you had a good day!”

The mercenary draped an arm over Spider-Man; it was almost sweet at first, until he heard a ‘boop’ noise and felt his friend grope at his chest, and – with a punch to the nose – Deadpool soon let go and nursed his face. It was difficult to stay angry, however, as Deadpool’s words had come from a good and kind place. Spider-Man smiled sincerely and nudged him.

“Thank you,” said Spider-Man.

“Any time, cutie!”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“So . . . you wanted to see me?”

MJ smiled from across the table. The restaurant was pretty busy; it was difficult to hear over the sound of bustling waiters and loud chefs, while couples and families occupied every table, and Peter realised – so close to the holidays – it was perhaps a bad idea to meet in any New York establishment. If there wasn’t the sound of cutlery clashing against plates, there was the sound of children playing and parents laughing instead. There was no escape from the noise.

He still felt a small stab of sadness, as he looked across to his ex-wife. It was all too easy to think about what could have been; they would have sat together still a happily wed couple, and beside them would have been their daughter in a small high-chair, who would have been on solid foods and follow-on milk, but instead he was reminded of their absence. Peter felt it keen in his chest. The mistletoe over every doorway seemed to torment him, while the small boughs of holly on the table were still too festive for how he felt.

“Peter? Earth to Peter?”

Peter jumped slightly in his seat. The smile she wore was beginning to fade, as her worry seeped through into her expression, and – beneath the make-up and façade – he saw that the past few nights were as sleepless for her as they were for him. MJ still looked as beautiful as ever, wrapped up in designer clothes and with a perfect figure, but he noted the small things about her that gave her away. He saw how her scarf hung loose, as opposed to a tight knot, and the small rip at the ankle of her tights, which she must have caught on her heeled shoes, but – most of all – he saw the way her hands clenched in her lap.

“S-Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be,” said MJ. “I get it. It’s our first Christmas apart; it was also the baby’s first birthday just a few weeks back, so – yeah – that’s been on my mind, too. You can tell Aunt May that I appreciate the invite, but I think . . . just for this year . . . I want to be with my friends. I know we’re still friends, but it’s . . . different. I just need some space.”

“No, I – I can get that. I – er – was kind of relieved when you said you weren’t coming, to be honest, as I think it would bring back too many memories. I would be looking at you and just thinking about what could have been, but . . . it’s going to be hard enough as it stands.”

“Oh God, I know that feeling, Petey. I thought I was going to die on Mother’s Day! It was absolutely everywhere and no one seemed to understand. I couldn’t rip down decorations, not without seeming like a bitch, but – any time I told people _why_ I was so upset – they just looked at me like I was a leper. It’s that pitying look that drives me insane. You can’t escape the sadness, but no one _wants_ you to be sad. Like, how do they want me to feel?”

Peter gave a loud laugh, as MJ smiled warmly at him. It was something to which he could relate, as he thought back to how he had been effectively bedridden over Father’s Day, and he ran a hand through his brown locks out of a nervous habit. The waitress soon came over with their meals; it didn’t surprise him that MJ had opted for the salad, instead it made his heart ache slightly that she was still the same person, and he missed her more than he realised. It reminded him of why he loved her, but what hurt was no longer being _in_ love with her.

The food in front of him smelled delicious, as he thanked the waitress. He didn’t know what possessed him to order tacos, especially as he wasn’t really hungry for anything, but he suspected that he had been spending far too much time with Wade as of late. They ate quietly for a few moments, while the waitress ran by them a few more times for other tables, and Peter struggled to find the words to carry on the conversation. He gave a sigh.

“Er, can I ask you a question?”

MJ put down her fork with a gentle movement. There was a furrow to her brow, which slightly betrayed her age, and he could see a few shallow lines that would have been absent just a few years previous. He watched as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin, before taking a few sips of water, and he felt like those few seconds were being stretched out into an eternity. The fact was that she likely wanted to give him her full attention, but it had the inadvertent effect of making him more anxious than he felt in a long time.

“Sure, shoot,” said MJ.

He smiled down at his food, as he picked at the corners. It was difficult to find the words, because to say them aloud would make everything so final, and – despite everything – a tiny part of him wanted to live in the past. He wanted them to be a family again, even if both of them had changed so much and lost too much for it to ever be possible, and what he began to realise – slowly and surely – was that what he was in love with was the _concept_ of a family.

“Just . . . let me find my thoughts?”

“Ah, _now_ you think before you speak,” teased MJ.

“Very funny,” said Peter. “I still love you, MJ, even if I’m not – you know – _in_ love with you, but that’s what I’m struggling with most of all. I love you. I love Mayday. I just hate grieving and mourning and feeling like . . . like . . . like nothing matters. I want a partner, just like I want a family, but – well – does wanting that make me a bad person?”

“I don’t think so, Petey. It’s not as though you’re trying to replace us; you’re just trying to move on, which is natural. No one wants to live in the past. I still think about you, too, and I always think about the baby . . . I just know – for me – I _needed_ to go forward. If I didn’t start dating or working or socialising, I’d only end up thinking about it over and over in my head, plus I didn’t want to be defined by the tragedy. I guess I wanted to redefine myself.”

“That’s what I’m struggling with most.” Peter ran a hand over his face. “I don’t want to move on without her, but sort of – I don’t know – bring her with me, I guess. I want to incorporate the past into my future, but I’m not even sure if that’s possible. It’s so confusing!”

MJ looked away with a great deal of sympathy, before she began to poke about her salad. It was clear that she sought for distraction, as she moved the cherry tomatoes around with the tines of her fork, and her smile was somewhat faded from before. A pair of children ran past them, each one attacking the other with what looked like a baguette in each hand, and Peter laughed as he watched them and thought about how he always envisioned Mayday with a brother or sister to call her own, too. He was almost sad to see them run back to their table.

“What brought this on, anyway?” MJ asked.

“I – ah – found someone that I might want to ask out.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Petey!” MJ clapped her hands together. “I was starting to get worried, but then Aunt May and Tony kept telling me that everyone grieves differently, and – well – I knew they were right logically, but emotionally was a different story. Who are they? Do I know them? Is it serious? Ah, sorry, of course it’s not serious . . . too soon, right?”

“It’s . . . well . . . do you remember Wade Wilson?” Peter took a bite of his food, as he sought to distract himself from the awkwardness at hand. “I worked with him on and off for a while, before we sort of . . . teamed up. He’s had a crush on me for as long as I can remember, but I was always with you and I always saw him in a bit of a bad light, but lately he’s changed and matured and he’s trying to be a good guy . . . I kind of want to get to know him better.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I’ve only ever dated you and Gwen. I’ve never dated a guy, plus I’m not even sure if we’re compatible romantically, and he’s carrying just as much baggage as I am, like almost all of his exes were abusive or died in his arms. If this is just a rebound thing, it could devastate the both of us in the long run, plus . . . this is so hard . . . what if it _does_ work out? What if we choose to have kids? What if I forget Mayday?”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Peter stared at his food, while he felt a chill despite the heating inside the restaurant, and he drew his coat around his body, even as he cursed the ill manners of wearing a coat indoors. The extra layer of his Spider-Man suit, hidden beneath his civilian clothing, didn’t help to warm him. He could feel the weight of his gloves and mask in his pocket, while his web-shooters dug into his wrist with a calming sense of familiarity, and he just knew that – as soon as the meal was over – he would go on patrol.

“You won’t ever forget her,” said MJ.

“I know, but what if I just -?”

“You _won’t_ forget her.”

He gave a nervous smile, as he returned to his food. It tasted delicious, but also so unlike anything his aunt would be willing to cook, and he wondered whether he could perhaps make a date out of cooking with Wade. It seemed too intimate, perhaps too boring, but he was half-certain he could get his aunt out of the house for one evening. The only problem was the lingering guilt over his daughter and his ex-wife. He gave a visible shudder.

“Just take it slow, okay?” MJ asked. “One day at a time.”

Peter felt her reach across the table and take his hand. He squeezed it kindly, nearly crying when she squeezed back, and he knew – no matter how much changed between them – there would always be respect and love. They stayed in that same position for a long time, until Peter was finally able to draw in a deep breath and smile back at her with great warmth.

“Thank you,” he said.

* * *

Peter smiled over to Wade.

The older man stood before the stove with spatula in hand; it was almost endearing to watch how he danced to unheard music, while he would sing along to some song that Peter could barely recognise, and the sway to his hips was almost hypnotic. He had arrived at the house dressed in an oddly attractive suit, custom-made with a hood attached to the top half, and the red-lining stood out really well against Wade’s skin-tone. It also clung to his figure well.

It had been a surprise to see Wade dressed up for Christmas Eve, especially when Peter had never been sure whether the mercenary celebrated or not, but he felt grateful that his friend was willing to spend a part of the holidays with him. The apron over his clothes gave him a rather a domestic look, with the pink standing out against the black, and Wade – in an unusual display of comfort and security – allowed his face to be bare and on show, while he added to the stack of pancakes by his side. The stack was already quite high.

There was no sign of Wade slowing down, even though it was just the two of them for the day, and Peter leaned against the kitchen table with his hands wrapped around a warm cup of cocoa, complete with a marshmallow dropped onto it by Wade. The older man was due to spend Christmas itself with his daughter, while Aunt May had decided to spend Christmas Eve with MJ, and so it seemed the ideal time for the two of them to spend together.

“So – er – I had something to ask you,” said Peter.

He pulled at the collar of his old sweatshirt; it was too baggy to suit him, but he had worn it for bed and had forgotten their planned hangout, which meant that the old sweatshirt was complemented with an equally old pair of boxers. The way Wade occasionally let his eyes drop all too covertly to his legs and buttocks irritated him, but – as much as an irritation as it was – it was also oddly . . . flattering to him. Peter blushed and looked over to the growing pile of food, which Wade eventually stopped making after a ‘look’ from him.

“If you want honey, that’s a no-no,” said Wade. “Got to be syrup for pancakes!”

“N-No, that’s not it at all,” replied Peter.

“Well, if you want a kiss under the mistletoe, I’m all for that!” Wade pointed down to the mistletoe that hung from the strings of the apron. “That may be a first date kind of thing, though, so I don’t mind if you want to wait before coming down this chimney.”

Peter gave a sigh, as he rubbed at his temples. He saw the smirk on Wade’s lips, which was mostly playful and not as serious as he pretended, and he felt reassured that someone _could_ be so comfortable as to tease him, as so many people seemed to baby him in his grief. Still, there was something very embarrassing about being confronted with such forward flirtations, and – as he blushed wildly to himself – he shot out a hand and snapped away the mistletoe. It got a laugh from Wade when he held it above his behind and muttered ‘bite me’.

“Ah, it’s nice to see I have an influence on you,” said Wade.

“More than you realise.” Peter gave a nervous smile. “I guess I always took you for granted, but the more I get to know you -? I see how good a father you are to Ellie. I see how you will do anything to help people in need. I see how you try so hard to be a hero! You’re a good friend to me, so I – er – was hoping to get to know you better . . . kind of?”

“You ‘kind of’ want to get to know me better?”

“W-Well, I have this Christmas stocking I put up last year for Mayday. I – I know it’s not much, but I was going to do the same this year . . . put a few toys in it, a letter to her, maybe some chocolate . . . I’ll put the contents on her grave for Boxing Day. I – well – I can’t promise I’ll be the best of company, but I know a great Chinese place that opens over the holidays, plus I’ll need a shoulder to cry on, and I know it’s not the _best_ first date –?”

“Date? You want to _date_ me?”

Wade dropped the spatula with a loud clatter. It bounced off the rim of the stove, before it landed on the floor with a sound that could shatter glass, and Peter – catching the momentary distraction – dove to catch the frying pan before it could topple over in turn. He turned off the stove and turned to look at Wade. The older man clasped his hands together, both in front of his face almost in prayer, and his face was so pale that it was difficult to read his reaction. It was enough to make Peter’s stomach roll in absolute nervousness.

“O-Only if you want to! I mean I –”

The reaction from Wade was instantaneous. He dove upon Peter and wrapped his arms tightly around him, so that they were draped over the shorter man’s shoulders, and he was pulled so closely to Wade that it became almost difficult to breathe. The embrace was actually soothing and warm, something that Peter – after a second of shock – gave into and returned with arms wrapped around Wade’s waist, and he allowed himself to be pressed against his friend.

They stayed that way for a long time, as Peter buried his face into the crook of Wade’s neck and felt the material of the hood tickle against his nose. There was a scent of skin lotions, likely from how lately the scars badly hurt Wade, and a faint hint of maple syrup and what could have been Indian food. They were the scents that defined Wade, but – as much as Peter found comfort in simply being held – it reminded him of just how long he had rejected the affection of people around him. It vaguely reminded him of his grief and isolation.

“Why didn’t you ask me sooner?”

“Hmm?” Peter asked.

“You know I totally dig you, baby boy!” Wade pulled back just enough to wink. “I’ve been checking you out for years; I bought all your merchandise, always teamed up with you at every chance I got, and I was so happy to meet ‘Petey’, too! I like Petey as much as Spidey.”

“I – I know, but . . . I wasn’t ready to date. I’m still not, really.” Peter gave a sad smile, as he leaned his head back upon his friend’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe the guilt I feel all the time, not to mention the grief, and I seriously wonder whether the counsellor I’m seeing can help, because it just runs too deep. I guess I was just too afraid to be emotionally intimate with anyone, not after what happened, but now I feel I’m ready . . . if we go slow.”

“Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to go fast! Not that I’d mind, mind you. I can just imagine you now; you’d be so totally hot dressed up as Spidey, hanging upside-down while I’m all tied up with the webbing, maybe on a roof somewhere where we could get caught, and you would be all in charge and yelling and maybe have a paddle . . .”

Peter pulled back and slapped Wade hard across his chest. The gesture did little to persuade him to stop, as – even as Peter rolled his eyes and made to move away – he was pulled back into a somewhat platonic and affectionate hug. There was no attempt to grope him, just as there were no inappropriate comments, and he simply felt Wade rest his head upon his own and draw in a deep breath, with nose nuzzled against his hair. Peter felt safe in muscular arms, even as he still felt the ever-remaining sense of sadness in his breast.

“I’m just joking,” teased Wade.

“Well, I’m not,” said Peter. “I’ve never dated a guy before. I also still have a lot to work through emotionally, so I don’t want either of us to get _too_ invested, just in case this doesn’t work out, because it’d be too heart breaking, else. One day at a time, okay?”

There was a clear pressure against his hair, which he soon recognised as a press of a kiss. It was platonic, something gentle and unassuming, yet it was filled with a sense of love that Peter felt his eyes begin to water and felt the laughter brew in his throat. There was something comforting about just being held: no expectations, no pity, but just love and patience. Wade squeezed him a little harder, as Peter smiled to himself.

“One day at a time, snookums,” said Wade.

Peter held him tighter than ever.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Peter gave a bright smile.

It always warmed his heart to see Wade, especially when the older man was in such a good mood, and he enjoyed Wade’s rendition of old love ballads. Wade sang as if no one could hear him, with an insane amount of confidence and passion, while he moved with natural grace that seemed out of place on a middle-aged man built out of sheer muscle. The flush to his cheeks made him come alive, as he winked to Peter with a mischievous expression.

He was dressed simply in an old towel, which clung far too low to his hips. It was a very attractive look, as – despite his scarred and mottled skin – he had an impressive body, and his eyes in particular were a feature so beautiful that Peter could easily look past all other imperfections, and he was grateful Wade could be so comfortable around him. The water from the shower clung to his skin, giving him a shine in the bedroom lights, and he gestured to Peter to turn around, as he prepared to get changed into his nightwear.

Peter blushed and spun around on the bed. He faced the wall with an embarrassed expression, while he sat cross-legged and rested his head into his hands, and – behind him – he heard Wade shimmy into a pair of pyjama bottoms and drop the towel. Wade then jumped across the small room and dropped next to Peter; the bed bounced with the heavy movement, and Peter fell down beside him with a small roll onto his bare chest.

“You know it’s been two months,” observed Wade.

Peter gave a small shrug, as he nuzzled against Wade and breathed deeply his scent. He felt mildly uncomfortable in just Wade’s t-shirt and shorts, as it was oddly exposing giving the stage of their relationship, and a part of him felt concerned that they hadn’t gone any further given that it was Valentine’s Day. Wade hummed to himself, as he stroked callused fingers through Peter’s brown hair. The gesture was enough to comfort him and helped him to relax, while the night began to grow late and the light drew thin. Peter gave a small sigh.

“Do you mind . . . that we’re not . . .?”

“Nah, not at all,” said Wade. “I would mind, but I’m happy taking it slow! It’s not as though I don’t get the best kisses and cuddles ever, which is kind of why I brought it up, because it’s Valentine’s and all . . . mind if I’m the little spoon for once?”

The way Wade waggled his eyebrow made Peter laugh. He tapped Wade on the shoulder, as he scooted back to give his boyfriend room to roll over, and then wrapped his arms around Wade’s waist and buried his face against the mercenary’s neck. It was too tempting not to place soft kisses along his neck, which caused Wade to laugh in turn and he cocked his head back to meet Peter’s lips, where they shared a quick and romantic kiss. Peter looked into his eyes for a long moment, as he simply relished in the love between them.

“I think I’m getting closer to being ready,” said Peter.

“Yeah? Well, I can _feel_ that much,” teased Wade.

Wade moved his behind against Peter’s growing interest; he pulled back slightly, as he blushed wildly and began to stutter nervously in response, until Wade laughed and smacked him lightly against his hip and told him not to worry. There was a part of Peter that hated keeping Wade waiting like that, but – more than anything – he was simply happy not to be rushed and to have found someone so patient about his needs. Wade asked softly:

“So what’re you thinking about?”

“I – er – wondered whether it was time to meet Ellie,” said Peter.

“You want to meet Ellie? My Ellie? Eleanor?”

“S-Sure, if you’re okay with that?”

Wade gave a loud cheer and rolled over. It was difficult to keep his arms around Wade’s waist, but the way his boyfriend threw his arms around Peter’s neck made it easier, and – within a matter of seconds – he felt Wade give him a deep kiss. There was the taste of chocolate and strawberries, along with faint traces of non-alcoholic champagne, before chapped lips pulled away from his own. Wade gave him a brief peck on the cheek, while he held Peter close enough that he could see the tears in Wade’s eyes.

“More than okay, baby boy!”

“I – I just think this is serious, so it feels right, you know?” Peter gave a blush. “I’m in this for the long-term; you’ve met Aunt May and MJ, so I want to make the same effort and get to know your family and be a part of your life completely. You – You’re so proud of Ellie and she sounds so wonderful, so I just hope she . . . you know . . . likes me.”

“Are you kidding? She’ll love you!” Wade gave a tight squeeze. “I was just more worried about her being a kid, because you’re still pretty much grieving, cutie-pie! If it’s only going to make you sad, we can hold it off for some other time. No pressure!”

“I think I’m ready to do this. I’d like to try anyway.”

“That’s fine by me,” chirped Wade. “I’ll ask Preston when she’s free and set something up! We’ll keep the visit short and sweet, though, okay? That way – if you feel too overwhelmed – we can slip out and get some Indian food or something. Your aunt would kill me if I brought you home in tears! Not that I’d ever do that, because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but I always screw up at some point. Only a matter of time, right?”

Peter gave an absent smile, before he placed a kiss to Wade’s lips. He wanted to do everything that he could to reassure his boyfriend, but there was the lingering worry that he could react badly to being around Ellie, and that was a thought he couldn’t abide. The sun had fully set outside, while he could hear his aunt downstairs coming in through the front door, and he knew that he ought to check in on her, but he was just so comfortable pressed against Wade’s warm body. It felt like torture to move even an inch.

He slowly moved his hands between them, where he let his palms rest against Wade’s chest, and allowed his fingers to trace absent patterns over his scars and stretchmarks. There was a low hum of contentment from Wade; the older man placed chaste kisses over his cheek and neck, until Peter was forced to pull back with a serious expression, as he pleaded silently for Wade to let him seriously talk for one moment. Peter cleared his throat and asked:

“Do you ever think about having more kids?”

Wade gave a small jump at the question. It was his turn to blush, as he pulled away and sat upright in bed, and – as he folded the pillows behind him, in a way that Peter hated and always chastised him about – he leaned back and pulled his leg up to support his arm. Peter gave a small sigh, as he reached down to pull the blanket over them. The winter was still not quite over yet, so the small comfort felt greater than it otherwise would, and he sat up in turn so he could lean against Wade and rest his head upon his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Er, do you?” Wade asked.

“I – I don’t know, to be honest,” admitted Peter. “I still want a family, more than anything, but I can’t really picture a family without Mayday, plus . . . I think I’m rethinking what a ‘family’ means, too. I think I can find fulfilment elsewhere, while I could give back to children by maybe teaching or mentoring . . . fostering, possibly . . .”

“Well, I’m sure as hell ain’t cut out to be a father.” Wade clenched hard on Peter’s shoulder, as he drew in a deep breath. “You know Ellie’s therapist told her not to consider me a father figure? It was right around the divorce, too . . . thought I’d been a good dad until that point.”

“I always thought you were a good day. Er, if that helps? I mean it’s not like I saw you with her a lot, and when I did it was always as ‘Spidey’, and I hear you missed Thanksgiving, and – come to think of it – didn’t you lead H.Y.D.R.A. to her house once? A-Anyway, I just wanted to say that you _never_ walked out on her, like my parents did to me, and you’ve always loved her unconditionally, which is way more than other parents do, and -!”

“Petey? Don’t quit your day job, okay? You ain’t no therapist.”

Peter buried his face against Wade’s neck. He let out a groan of embarrassment, as he tried to hide his head away, but Wade gave a laugh loud enough for him to feel the vibrations, and soon Peter wanted the earth to swallow him whole. The thought of making Wade feel worse was one that broke his heart, but – luckily – the mercenary seemed comfortable with the situation and hadn’t taken too much offence. There was a clatter downstairs from the kitchen, while his aunt went about making supper, and Peter smiled at the sounds.

“Maybe the problem was you were a _parent_ ,” said Peter.

“Wow, that’s harsh, even for you.”

“N-No! I mean it’s harder being a parent alone.” Peter blushed and began to panic. “Isn’t it easier when you’re working as part of a team, as _parents_? Plural? You’re a good guy, Wade, but Preston wasn’t your partner, so you rely on her instead of working with her, so –”

“Oh, it almost sounds like you’re saying you want to co-parent with me!” Wade gave a wink and laughed again. “Let’s move slowly, okay, Petey? It’d be better to see how you get on with Ellie, plus how we get on long-term, and – well – what if I don’t blow your mind in the sack and you get bored? I’ve been down that road already! It’s bad enough as the guy being cheated on, let alone when you got a kid involved, and plus –”

“Seriously? Are you comparing me to _Shiklah_?”

“Nah, not like that! I know you wouldn’t cheat on me! I’m just saying I can kind of get why she _would_ , even if I’d rather die than admit that to her face, because I was hardly around and I wasn’t exactly the best husband. What if we split up? I’d have another kid suffering because of me, stuck with one parent and never getting to see me, and that’d suck.”

Peter breathed in deep, as he considered what Wade said. There was no point discussing things too deeply so early on into their relationship, but they needed to know where each other stood, lest it only get in the way later on between them. If Wade was set against any more children, it would mean either the end of their relationship or to Peter reassessing his dreams for his future. He wrapped his arms around Wade, as he kissed his shoulder with a gentle touch and tightly held him. Peter let Wade’s words sink into him.

It was far from an awkward silence, but there was a lot left unspoken. Peter had no idea if he was emotionally ready to try for another child, or if he would ever feel ready, but the idea of adopting a slightly older child warmed him. He slid further down the bed, just enough so he could rest his head upon Wade’s chest, and he listened to his boyfriend’s heart as it beat steadily against his ear. It was a comforting sound and one Peter swore to memorise.

“If we last long-term, say a couple of years?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Wade. “I’d totally reconsider it then! I guess it’s all about time, right? It’s kind of weird, because I was never one to move slowly, but I guess we fell into each other’s lives at the right time, because no way do I want to rush this. It’s nice, too, because I get to cherish every hug and kiss and hand-holding and –”

“I’d have never have pegged you as a romantic,” said Peter with a laugh. “I’m just glad there’s a future between us, one with maybe a family, even if that means just us and Ellie and Aunt May. It’d still be nice, even if not quite what I envisioned.”

“Maybe by that point we could hit third base, too.”

“I thought we were at third base already?”

“Did you ever play baseball?”

Peter gave a blush and looked sternly to Wade. It was difficult not to feel somewhat confused, as – by all accounts – Peter was pretty sure they were already at that base, but he knew that his experience was far lacking and he had never been intimate with a man before Wade. He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, as he climbed out and threw a shirt over to Wade. The mercenary muttered to himself in complaint, as he slid on the shirt and stood out of bed beside Peter, before he brought the shorter man in for a hug.

“Well,” asked Peter, “what do _you_ call ‘third base’?”

“Huh, good question.” Wade hugged him from behind. “Last night? That’d be second base. That film we watched this morning? Homerun. So . . . something in between? Not that I’d ever want us to do the homerun thing, because I don’t want any other guys involved, plus I don’t think we have that much peanut butter and leather lingerie is really –”

“O-On second thoughts, I don’t want to know!” Peter blushed and swallowed hard. “I also _really_ don’t want to watch a film like that again, okay? God knows what the neighbours thought when you sat on the remote . . . I thought I’d go deaf listening to screaming.”

“Hey, it cheered you up, didn’t it? Aren’t too sad any longer!”

“I suppose that much is true,” he admitted.

They stood in silence for a while, as Peter laughed quietly to himself. It felt good to be with someone that understood him, as well as someone that didn’t pity him for his grief, and he felt a sense of hope with Wade that he lacked with anyone else. There was a strong chill in the air, while the wind picked up outside and lashed against the windows, and soon he found himself beginning to grow tired and long for the warmth of bed. He almost missed the knock at the door, as he closed his eyes and leaned back against Wade.

‘ _Boys, do you want any supper_?’

Peter jumped at his aunt’s voice. He had lost track of time, especially with most of the day spent with Wade upstairs, and it felt strange to be brought back to reality. Peter felt a stab of hunger in his stomach, while he realised that he hadn’t properly seen his aunt in days, and so – as he forced himself away from Wade reluctantly – he made his way to the bedroom door, where the framed photograph of his daughter reminded him of the significance of family.

“Coming, Aunt May!”

There was a shout of ‘okay’, before his aunt walked away. He listened to her footsteps, as Wade walked barefooted behind him and hugged him from behind, and Peter – with a deep laugh – leaned back and placed his hands over Wade’s hands. The way that Wade gently swayed was a strange comfort, enough to almost make him forget all his pain, and Peter raised one hand to stroke at his neck. He almost cried when Wade asked:

“Too soon to say ‘I love you’, sweetie?”

“Never too soon,” said Peter.

Wade leaned in for a kiss.


End file.
